


The Curtain Rises

by JustALittleBitOfYou



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But like it will be fine, Character Death, Friendship, Gen, Parenthood, basically rewriting season 4, because i wasn't convinced
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-11-05 15:38:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17921630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustALittleBitOfYou/pseuds/JustALittleBitOfYou
Summary: Two years after Sherlock's fake suicide, the detective's return causes a split between the two friends. Watson's feeling of betrayal leads him to settle down with his fiancée instead of going back to Baker Street. But Mary Morstan hides a dark secret: she was indeed a professional murderer. After the wedding, she shoots Sherlock because he has discovered the truth. John is furious when he finds out, but it is too late: Sherlock has to leave for Serbia to avoid jail after killing Magnussen to keep the Watson family safe. However, the plan is stopped when a video of Moriarty repeating “Did you miss me?” is broad casted in the whole country. The plane turns back and Sherlock, having taken drugs to avoid getting captured and tortured in Serbia, overdoses. The detective is back, the Watson couple is safe but John Watson is madder than ever. Mad at Sherlock, at Mycroft and at Mary who promised to stop her activities as a killer. But what if it was more than that? What if it was only a game? What is real? Nobody knows where the truth is anymore...





	The Curtain Rises

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, hope you enjoy this... I really think that the whole business with Moriarty's big return was handled too quickly. I still love the show and don't pretend to be a better screenwriter or anything. Moffat and Gatiss are amazing beyond words.  
> Anyways, english is not my first language at all, so please forgive any mistake, it hasn't been beta-ed...
> 
> Kisses ^^

When the plane turned back, he smiled. Beyond his different feelings, madness, betrayal and pain, he was relieved. For the first time since the Magnussen story began, he felt like maybe things could go back to being fine, like maybe it would not be so bad anymore. His best friend would not leave, his wife would stop her illegal activities and they would talk, they would be okay. They had to be, it was written, it was how things _were_. “We might have to change the plans”, Mycroft had said, very calmly as usual. They still did not know what had happened, why all the agents abruptly left like the devil just appeared to them. They did not know anything. But it was fine. Because as the plane turned back, John Watson felt at peace.

He could not have been more wrong.

  


_Overdose_. The word rang in his ears leaving him empty and dizzy. He did not understand. Why? When? Sherlock had not been high when he left, so what happened? Apparently he would be alright, at least that is what Molly said. But how could he be alright? Nothing made sense. At his left, Mycroft leaned against the wall and waited until John realized he was waiting for him to give him his attention.

\- What do you want? he said with a sigh.

\- I'm sorry you had to see this doctor Watson.

\- Is that all? Or is there any other dirty secret you're hiding from me? Because if not then you can just _leave_.

\- My brother have always been an addict. He always will be. There is nothing you or me or anyone else can do.

\- And that's it? You just gave up because you couldn't take care of your brother? Because it was all too much for you?

\- Don't you think I have tried? Mycroft said with anger in his voice.

_This is your fault. You have no rights to be mad at me._

\- You know what? I'm seriously starting to doubt that.

Watson did not wait the older man's answer before walking away, angry at the whole world. Molly was still working on the analysis in the lab and Sherlock was sleeping after having woken up for about one minute and a half. Mary was sitting on an armchair Molly brought her so that she would not get tired with her baby belly. Her eyes crossed his and he turned away. He did not know if he was really mad at her anymore, but right now he would have snapped against whoever stood in his way. He thought back to the whole day. When he had woken up that morning, it was to say goodbye to his best friend who would leave to Serbia on a “mission”. He left on that plane with a false smile on his face and fear in his eyes. But John was blinded back there. His reconciliation with Mary was still fresh and fragile, and he did not really get the point of everything. Not when it mattered. “He wasn't suppose to come back”, Mycroft had said later, much later. It wasn't a mission, it was a suicide. A _real_ suicide this time. If the plane had not turned back, Sherlock would have died in a period of six months. That was a revelation. Then James Moriarty. The video. Probably the weirdest thing they had ever seen, the hardest case. It was recorded, that was for sure. You can't exactly come back from shooting yourself in the head. But then who had sent it on air? How could Moriarty have known what to say? _How do you read the future?_ Something was missing. Something in front of them, hiding in plain sight. To end this mess, they needed Sherlock Holmes, and not just the shell of the man. He would come back from this, but when? What if it would be too late? He vaguely heard his phone ringing and reached for his pocket with sweaty hands and put it to his ear.

\- Hello?

\- John? It's Greg.

\- I saw your name on the phone, Greg... What do you have for me?

\- My men searched the flat. I believe it's clear, weirdly enough. Are you gonna tell me what's wrong?

\- I... I'm sorry but I don't think I can. Not now. Mycroft made me promise not to say anything. But we will reach you as soon as we need your help. And we are gonna need it. We will need Scotland Yard.

\- Whatever, John. Just call if you need anything. Bye.

\- See you Greg!

He closed his eyes and sighed. This day was never going to end.

  


_\--Two weeks later--_

 

\- John! John we have to go!

The detective's voice echoed through the house. John groaned. _One day, can't I have just one day?_ He stood up from his perfectly comfortable couch and strode to his room, leaving the detective to wait for him just a little more. _That's what you get for coming unannounced._ Mary was on the bed, half reading _The Ghost_ by Robert Harris, half typing on her phone, probably to Janine. The pregnancy was coming to an end now, the baby would be born within two months. John was delighted of course, but he was also very nervous. And as much as people told him it was perfectly normal, _they_ did not know. What if Mary still had guns around the house? What was he supposed to do? Why did nobody write a _How to raise your child when your wife is a past assassin for dummies_ manual? His wife was looking at him with eyes full of questions. He met her eyes before lowering his head and answering her silent interrogation.

\- You know what I'm thinking, he murmured.

\- John... We talked about…

\- I have to go, he cut her off. Sherlock is waiting for me.

He did not want to have this conversation a thousandth time. He was too tired. When he got back to the living room, the detective was rummaging through the desks. He raised up a Paris snow globe John and Mary bought as a souvenir of their honeymoon and examined it like it contained the secrets of the whole wide universe. He seemed immersed in his thoughts and clearly did not realize he was not alone anymore. John cleared his throat to signify his presence and Sherlock turned, his coat floating behind him.

\- Why are you here Sherlock?

\- Amazing snow globe you have here, John! Look at all the details of the Eiffel Tower, you can almost see yourself there. I really…

\- Sherlock? What are you doing in my living room? John cut him off with an exasperated sigh.

\- We have things to do John! Cases to solve! Come along!

He hastily replaced the snow globe on its shelf and ran out the door, leaving John behind, probably expecting him to follow him around. He probably would, anyway. John grabbed his coat, shouted a “I'll probably be back late tonight” and, without waiting for Mary's answer, shut the door and followed his friend.

  


Entering Baker Street again felt strange, like both friends were suddenly aware of everything again: the fall, the wedding, the overdose... The flat felt like a bubble ready to implode. Mrs Hudson had been very nice to John, but he could see that even she blamed him for not visiting earlier, for letting Sherlock recover on his own for over a week. But he did not get the time to dwell on it as the detective dragged him to the living room and pushed him on a chair. He then himself went to the opposite armchair and sat, crossing his hands under his chin and staring at John.

\- So... the doctor asked with caution.

\- Moriarty is dead. I saw it. I was there.

\- Yeah but then…

\- Let me speak and maybe this fluctuating brain of yours will start understanding things!

John glared at Sherlock and Sherlock glared at John. The only thing you could hear was the familiar ticking of the old clock. It was weird, this atmosphere between them, and even the overconfident Sherlock Holmes seemed to realize it as his gaze faltered before he resumed his explanation.

\- The video then. It has been recorded before Jim's death, of course. I reckon even you can get that. But someone broad casted it. Someone is playing with us. Someone is walking in Jim's steps. It can be anyone but I think this is way bigger than everything we assumed. I don't believe Moriarty is dead.

\- But you just said he…

\- You didn't listen to what I just said! I said James was dead, but not Moriarty. At least I'm almost sure it isn't.

\- It? Isn't James James Moriarty? I don't understand.

\- I figured you wouldn't. We spent the past years believing Moriarty was a man, but what if he isn't? No, he said as John was about to speak. Let me explain before you ask stupid questions. What if James just took Moriarty's name because it was convenient? Imagine it: a worldwide organization. Imagine hundreds of agents without a real boss, but someone to coordinate the operations of an entire country. And now imagine if all those coordinators had the same name as a recognition, as a way of communication between countries.

\- You think Moriarty is an alias?

\- Exactly, and I'm almost certain of it. Someone, anybody, took complete control of the British side of the organization. And that person is ruling everything from this city, the most powerful city of the United Kingdom, the city of crime and darkness. Someone, here in London, has taken Moriarty's place and is pursuing his goal.

\- Destroying us.

\- Destroying me, John.

\- Okay, the war doctor said with a nervous laugh. And how do we stop it? Because we do, right?

\- Of course we'll stop him, stop speaking nonsense John. This is why we're here, after all. We both know this isn't some kind of courtesy visit anymore.

There it was. The elephant in the room. John sighed but did not say anything, probably out of tiredness, or cowardice. Instead he just looked at Sherlock and waited for him to continue his explanation of the plan. But the detective seemed lost in his thoughts, his eyes looking to an empty fixed point on the opposite wall, the one with the yellow smiley taunting them with its in animated joy. John could not believe the detective's story: how could it be real? He thought it was all over years ago, he had hoped back then that it would never come up again. Apparently he was wrong. Because it worked, Sherlock's explanation made sense. Of course it did, the man being a genius and all. And it scared him, this theory was frightening because it meant they were not safe anymore. Mary, John, Sherlock, the baby... Nobody was safe if someone like Moriarty, or even worse, was back and working to break them again. John was snapped out of his thoughts by Sherlock's fingers moving in front of his eyes, exactly one inch away from his face. He huffed and got up from the chair to follow the consultive detective to the board. Crosses were drawn all over it, pictures of men and pubs circled in red. He glanced at Sherlock and saw him looking at him with concern and nervousness and something akin to contriteness. _Why are you sorry? You're never sorry..._ And then it appeared in front of him. He felt dread filling his core, his blood ran cold and he began to sweat out of feverishness. Right before his eyes were concentric circles that all started from the same fixed point on the map of London: Euston Road. 310 Euston Road.

\- Sherlock? What... What is this?

\- This, John, is a map of London.

\- I know that! Can you please explain to me why the center of this mess seems to be my house? he cried out.

\- From what we know, those red dots are the locations of the thirty two broadcasts of two weeks ago in London. As you can see, each broadcast can be linked to the others by drawing a circle, like in electronic waves. As for the center of those circles, it is indeed th exact location of your house. Although I don't know what it means yet, you of all people know what I think about coincidences.

\- The universe is rarely so lazy, John murmured, echoing the detective's past words.

As Sherlock cryptically nodded, John continued, almost shouting out of frustration and panic.

\- So what do we _do_ Sherlock? What's your brilliant plan this time?

Sherlock seemed to hesitate, like he knew the words he would say would ire John, in one way or another.

\- I'm sorry John but I think I need you to investigate on your wife's activities…

\- What? What are you talking about? Mary is pregnant, what does she have to do with all of this?

\- I believe she has lied to you, and even though I can't be sure of it, I think she is still hiding something. Once again, I wish it could go any other way. I'm…

\- Shut up! Do you... Don't you get what you're telling me? You're asking me to spy on my wife, who is pregnant with my child, who could give birth at any moment, based on suspicions you can't prove? Well big news, I'm out! You're alone this time.

He stormed out of the flat, leaving Sherlock agape in the living room. Who did he think he was? What gave him the power to accuse Mary that way when she has given proof that she was clear now? When he knew that John still had problems with it? As he walked the streets of London, he thought back to everything Mary and him had said to each other in the past months, how they had built something again, for themselves and for the child, their daughter. His wife had stopped working as an assassin, that he was sure of.

Or was he?

  


_–Three days later--_

  


“Hello! You tried to reach Mary Watson, but I'm probably busy right now... I'll call you back as soon as I can. Kisses!” John sighed as the phone went to voice mail for the fifth time tonight. It was Thursday and Mary should have been back two hours ago. She had had an appointment with the obstetrician earlier in the afternoon and apparently everything was going perfectly. But it was the third time this week that she did not make it home at the normal hour. She had been mad at him because he could not make it as he had to work at the clinic until six pm. They had fought over his irresponsibility in the whole thing. _Again._ And Sherlock and John hadn't talked since their last exchange over phone: “Did you find anything suspicious? SH», followed by his answer «I told you I won't do it, and I will not change my mind”. So things were going just _great_ again. And now he was home alone, walking aimlessly trying to talk to his wife who wouldn't answer. He was going to the kitchen when his phone rang. Once. A message, then. John got back to the coffee table to pick it up and was surprised to see the familiar name of Sherlock on his bright screen.

“She is out again, isn't she? SH”

He got back to the menu screen and a picture of him and Mary at their wedding stared back at him, almost like it knew he was having an internal conflict about them. He furiously locked his phone with a grunt. He would not answer his friend. He would not give him the satisfaction. But he could not help feeling a bit curious. How did Sherlock know about Mary's little disappearances? He could not help feeling like he was missing something, blinded by his love for Mary and his trust in her honesty. His hand grabbed his phone again, without his mind's consent (because apparently his hands did that now) and his fingers independently searched for Sherlock's number and pressed the “call” icon. The phone rang for about one second and a half before the familiar voice of the detective was heard through the phone.

\- I put a tracking device on your phone. Well, not exactly a tracking device but whatever. It's the fifth time you've called her tonight, and the twenty-eight time in the past days.

\- Are you spying on us? Because that's definitely what it feels like!

\- You wouldn't listen to me back at the flat, and I have a case I need to solve.

\- A. Case. That. Has. Nothing. To. Do. With. Mary.

\- Spare me John, we both know you're lying to yourself. Here is the truth: Mary is not home, she is not answering her phone and she is an ex assassin. Even the foulest man in the world wouldn't ignore those signs. And you are not, bless me, the stupidest.

\- That's all you have for me? Speculations? On my wife's back? On my back? No no you listen for once, he said as Sherlock was about to speak back. You will stay away from my family's business until you find proof of Mary's guiltiness. And if you don't you will apologize to us. Am I being clear?

\- John…

\- Am I being clear? How is that a difficult question?

\- Just... The snow globe John, the snow globe.

\- What do snow globes have to do with everything? Sherlock, he said as he heard nothing on the other side. Sherlock? Goddammit!

He threw his phone on the couch and let out a frustrated noise as it bounced on a pillow and crashed on the floor. He carefully stepped closer to the floor and picked it up. And okay, it was definitely _not_ his day. The screen spotted now a large scratch on the whole length. _Just great._ This was all Sherlock's fault anyway. They could have been just great without him taking drugs because he could not face reality. They would have been perfect. _Except for Mary's secret_ , his inner voice sing-sang him. He chose to ignore it, but he could not let go of the nagging doubt in the back of his mind. It was ridiculous, but he hurried to the living room, the moonlight the only light shadowing the room, and took the Paris snow globe from the shelf where it stood. He turned it over and over again, but nothing. There was _nothing_. He was about to abandon his useless research and send Sherlock to hell when his thumb nail got stuck in a crack between the snow globe's base and the glass as he was smoothing it down. It was not big enough to cause a leak, but definitely not small enough to be a manufacturing defect. As his breath became ragged, a bad feeling taking over his senses, he slowly removed the base and watched amazed as the false snow fell on the rug Mary was so keen on keeping although it was ruined by time and eaten by moths. The miniature glass-made Eiffel Tower shattered on the floor, water pooled on the top-left corner of the rug and then, to John's horror, a minutely folded paper of one inch slowly glided to the ground, gently rocked by the wind coming from the open window. John paled and picked it up with trembling hands. Unfolding it and praying it was innocuous, he thought back to every bad choice that led him to this moment, hating every single one of them. “666 217 01”. The number before him seemed to challenge him, waiting for the dam to break. What did it mean? Weirdly short for a phone number or coordinates, too long for an address... The now empty snow globe fell from the doctor's hands to the ground and rolled under the desk, its crash softened by the thick rug. He folded the paper back with shaking hands and slided it in his front pocket. Mechanically, John took his phone from his back pocket and unlocked it. 3008. _The day I met Mary. But who is Mary? Who do I know?_ He reopened Sherlock's conversation, the detective's unanswered message filling him with bile, and typed furiously yet weakly. “How did you know about the snow globe and why on earth didn't you mentioned it before?”. He quickly left the messaging application before changing his mind and hesitantly typed another message to the mysterious number. _Worth a try._ “My name is John Hamish Watson.”

  


It was late at night, but John did not get a minute of well-deserved sleep, when the front door creaked. John got up in an instant, ready to face his wife. He tip-toed to the entry hall and jumped as a deep baritone voice rang out through the noiseless house:

\- You wouldn't have believed me otherwise John.

John turned around abruptly and was startled to face his best friend, wearing his signature coat and purple scarf. As if everything was completely normal. John was furious. He was completely mad at the whole world, and if Sherlock was at the receiving end of his anger, _so be it._

_-_ You should have told me. You had no right Sherlock, no right to make that choice for me.

\- You would have just told me to stop what I…

\- She is my wife Sherlock! What the hell were you thinking hiding this from me! This is big! This is not some...

His outburst was cut short by the door opening again; They had moved to the dining room where Sherlock was gesticulating widely, not giving a damn about the China vases he threatened to knock down with every movement. But when they heard the distinct noise of the key turning in the lock, and the door cracked open once again, they both stilled. John's blood ran cold when he heard it being shut with great strength and he closed his eyes, trying (in vain) to control his ragged breath. _In. Out. In. Out._ It was not long before Mary's willowy shadow was cast on the wall, and the first thing he saw were her shining black pumps, the heels echoing through the now silent house. She smiled and longed for her husband, plunging for a kiss that John could not help but feel sick about, somehow. She then turned to Sherlock and offered him a polite yet tight smile, to which he answered with a nod of acknowledgement. There was a tension in the room, a silent question hanging in the air. “Where were you?" Nobody would ask, they would all act like nothing was up. _Just like always._ Sherlock slowly turned to John with a warning look as he had let out an unwilling sigh. Mary did not seem to have heard it, or at least she did not pick up on it as she turned on her high heels to the living room. _The living room._ John did not know you could feel like fire and ice were contemporary running through his veins. He had not cleaned up the mess he had made with the snow globe. It was still there, like a sentence staring back at him. And Mary would see it, she would know he discovered her secret, even if he still did not know what it meant. The truth was that he would not accept the proof he was given of Mary's guiltiness. She had something to do with everything that was going on, somehow. “Be ready to run, if necessary”, Sherlock mouthed as an audible gasp came from the next room. John froze as his body automatically went into soldier mode. John cursed it to stay calm: it was only his wife, for God's sake. Footsteps echoed into the room, like a fatality coming to life. But, as John and Sherlock were expecting a furious ex-killer ( _or not so ex after all_ ) to storm into the room, they were soon faced with a deathly pale Mary, clutching her stomach with her left hand while her right one was gripping the door handle and giving her balance. As John made a move to help her, she threw both friends a helpless and pained look. If John had looked closer into it, if he had not being completely emotions-wiped to face the situation, he would have noticed the flick of a wicked grin. But as it was, John just thought about taking an obviously in labor Mary to the nearest emergency hospital. Sherlock, after a moment of stillness caused by his surprise, spoke to the couple:

\- I... came with a car; I can drive you to the ER...

John only nodded as he carried a grunting Mary outside, grabbing her coat in a fly and latching onto her as he opened the car's left rear door and crawled inside, dragging his wife next to him. He shouted for Sherlock as he was still in the house, probably analyzing the carpet or _something_. As the detective's black silhouette was now coming to them, the doctor tried to give his wife some advices.

\- Just breathe with me Mary. One… Two… Three, he counted, taking exaggerated inhales.

She shot him a black look to shut him up as the driver's door opened and quickly slammed back close. Sherlock started the engines and pushed the accelerator pedal. The tires squealed on the tarmac. It seemed surreal to John, like he was in a nightmare and he would soon wake up in his bed, in a world in which Mary never shot Sherlock, in which the overdose never happened. In which he was peaceful, soon to be a dad, with a loving and caring wife. Instead he was in a car at three and thirty-eight in the morning, his best friend blew through every spotlights to keep Mary from giving birth in a bloody _car._ Suddenly, Sherlock rummaged through his pocket and extricated his phone with difficulty from it. He dialed an unknown number and put the phone to his ear, murmuring to himself. _Great. We're driving at 210 on a 60 road, running through ever red lights, without our seatbelt, and the driver is on the phone. Just brilliant._ Sherlock made an enthusiastic sound as his call was finally answered.

\- Hello, Mycroft! I need your help, right now.

Mycroft probably was not very keen on helping as Sherlock replied to his brother with an irritated voice.

\- Listen. Mary's waters have broke in her living room and we're on our way to Saint Mary right now. Just make sure that nothing stops us. Clear the traffic, find a way to keep the cops out of our hands. Use your influence or whatever you do! Whatever suits you, honestly.

He cut the call without hearing Mycroft's answer, but he must have been convincing because soon enough they were the only car on the streets. The only thing you could see in miles in the starless night were two highlights; Mary's scream to only thing you could hear. It was Thursday and everyone was sleeping at home. It was somehow beautiful, the emptiness of the city. But John did not get the time to admire London's stillness, as if it was holding its breath for them, for they soon caught a glimpse of the gigantic building that is St Mary's hospital. The structure was like a dark lump elevating in the cloudy sky. The breaks squealed, and John hurried out of the car, taking Mary by her arm and leading her inside the hospital.

\- My wife is going to give birth! he shouted as soon as the automatic glass doors closed behind him.

A woman who was doing some paperworks behind the register quickly got up from her chair and came to the Watson couple. She then rapidly took Mary's pulse, trying to calm a raging John, and nodded at one of her colleague who approached them. The man proceeded to lower Mary in a wheelchair with John's help, and soon enough the shape of Mary Watson slowly faded in a seemingly endless corridor, leaving behind a completely distressed John.

 

  


Sighing, John slowly turned around, giving one last look to the general direction in which his wife has been brought, and got back outside. Sherlock was on his phone, leaning casually on the car's bonnet. John clenched his fists as he felt anger rush to him. He hurried his steps and, when he was close enough, posted in front of Sherlock and waited for him to acknowledge his existence. He cleared his throat, for good measures, and was strangely surprised to hear the detective's voice.

\- As you can clearly see, I am working.

\- Working!? Are you kidding me? What must be so important that you don't even ask me if everything is going fine with my wife?

\- Do you think I never went to the hospital? We both know it would be a stupid question since you are not with Mary right now, so you can't know how it's going on; that's just a thing you say to stick to the etiquettes.

\- What the hell? Are you actually serious right now? She could have give birth in your car! Are you that distanced from everything?

\- Well that would be logical, as you pointedly said numerous time that I was a sociopath after all…

\- That's not even the point Sherlock! You… In a few hours, I'll be a father and...

\- Congratulations, he cut him short. Is that what I am supposed to say?

\- You know what? he said as he began walking backwards, I don't even want to talk to you right now.

\- Your wife, the detective said, completely oblivious to John's nerves.

\- What?

\- You asked me what could be more important than your wife's sake. Your wife.

\- Oh, give me a bloody break, Sherlock.

He did not wait for his friend's answer, and was only mildly surprised when Sherlock did not follow him. Instead of over thinking Sherlock's words, he tried to wrap his mind around the fact that he would be a father within ten hours at max… He did not feel ready for the responsibility that came with fatherhood. He did not feel ready to face Mary about the snow globe she must have seen. He did not feel ready, period. But the world apparently did not care about his struggles, as it was only four hours later than the nurse who had welcomed them earlier came at him as he was out smoking a cigarette for the first time in years. She sat next to him and the next words she spoke put him in a mixed state of shock, happiness and stress. “Congratulations, Rosie Watson is safe and sound.” As the sun rose, like a new day falling onto them, imposing its bright light in John's dark thought, the ex-war-doctor's tired figure slowly disappeared in the hospital's maze.

  


_\-- A day after –_

  


\- Hello doctor Watson? The voice of a stranger came through the phone.

\- Yes? Who are you? John's sleep-filled voice answered.

It was eleven in the morning but, after having spent the whole day before with Rosie and Mary, he had over-slept this Saturday morning. Mary had been understandably exhausted, gigantic bags covering half of her ghostly pale face. The baby was fine, very healthy. It weighted seven pounds, which was perfect, and it was eighteen inch tall. A little tiny, but the doctors said it was not a real problem, and that the both of them would probably be allowed to be discharged within two or three days from now. Even though John felt guilty about it, he could not help but dread their return. Rosie was a little angel with a very fair skin, baby blue eyes and dirty blond hair sticking to her small skull, and he was delighted to have her home and excited to use all the furniture he had built over the months. However, his nervousness was devastating all hope and joy. What would happen when Mary would be strong enough to realize that her husband had discovered something she kept hidden, something that could possibly mean she was linked to Moriarty, somehow? John was brought back to reality as the man on the other side of the line cleared his throat.

\- Sorry, what did you say? John snapped.

He did not mean to be rude, he was just frustrated and sad and angry at the whole world.

\- My name is Thomas Milburgh and I was your wife's obstetrician, the man repeated with a heavy sigh.

\- What about them? Is everything okay? Is it the baby? Oh my God, tell me the baby is okay.

\- Your daughter is perfectly fine, Mister Watson. It's…

\- No offense, but spit it out. I am tired and I don't have time to beat about the bush. So...

\- She is missing.

\- What? What do you…, he breathed out, his voice having mysteriously left him.

\- Your wife has disappeared. When the nurse came to her room to check on the baby, she was gone and the window was opened wide. We don't know how or when she left, but nobody has seen her since. We already called the police department, but they haven't found anything yet… I am so sorry, Sir.

\- How did nobody realized she was gone? he shouted, his voice faltering near the end of the sentence.

\- I am really profusely sorry. We will find her, I promise you. We'll keep you updated and will transmit your number to the authorities.

\- Thanks, goodbye, he murmured before cutting the line.

He threw his phone to the ground with a distressed shout. His back hit the wall and he slided down to the floor, he fisted his hands in his hair and screamed. He screamed with everything he had, the air leaving his lungs. But no one heard him, no one was here to hear him anymore.

  


John stayed miserable on the floor for two hours before he decided he had to act. He slowly got up from the carpet he was half-laid on and gripped the nearest bookcase as his still-sour legs trembled from the too quick movement. He was still sore after spending so much time on the floor, and he had to stay still for a minute or two before moving to the kitchen and having a glass of water. He watched his reflection in the huge mirror that covered almost the whole surface of one of the kitchen's wall. He looked terrible: pale like a sick man, red bloodshot eyes watered by his now drying tears, slumbered shoulders that seemed to carry a way too heavy burden, and clothes that still had wine stains from the day before, when he and Mike had celebrated Rosie's birth at his friend's place. Seeing his awful figure made him realize that he had not properly slept, nor felt really at peace, since at least a week and a half. Since the overdose, if he was to be honest with himself. He let out a shaking breath and headed to the entrance hall. He took his khaki coat, his keys on the key ring that spot a rainbow one of his youngest patient had given him, and got outside. It was around a quarter past fifteen, but the sky was stormy, yet paradoxically calm, like it was mourning with John. There were a lot of people outside, but they looked like ghosts to the doctor as he took the familiar road to Baker Street, walking under threatening and sad clouds. _It's like they know I'm grieving._ He did not even realize it as his steps soon lead him to the familiar green door, the gold letters sending a ray of light reflecting in his gray eyes. He knocked on the door, tapping the heavy door knocker on the acacia wood. He heard light hurried steps on the other side and a voice shrieking “Coming!”. The footsteps slowly got closer until John was faced with a very disheveled Martha Hudson wearing a purple-pink apron, her hair in a messy bun. She had her i-Pod in one hand and her headphone in the other, but when she saw John her eyes widened, she huddled everything in her front big pocket and lunged for him, hugging him until he could no longer breathe.

\- It's been so long since you last visited, darling, she squealed.

\- I was here the other day, remember?

\- Yes but now I can actually make you a nice cup of tea and we can catch up!

\- Actually, is Sherlock here? I would kind of need to talk to him about a... case, he said, even though the last word got half stuck in his throat.

\- Well you can always try, but he is in his spirit palace, or whatever he calls it…

\- Mind palace.

\- Yes, that! she said, clicking her fingers like she had suddenly found the meaning of life. So anyway you won't manage to reach him, I fear… So, tea and biscuits, am I right?

He offered her the brightest smile he could manage with the current situation. He must have been pretty convincing, if the blinded grin she gave him back was anything to go by. She made a “oh” sound, like she had forgotten something, and then moved from the threshold so that John could enter the house. He was surprised to see every curtains drawn. However, contrary to the shadowy atmosphere, the place was sparkling clean, as always. He looked around before stepping into Mrs Hudson's little living room and sat on the couch as the old landlady came back from the kitchen with appetizing cakes and streaming tea embalming the whole room with its exquisite smell.

\- I completely forgot about these muffins I made earlier! Fortunately you came by and made me think about them.

John laughed. He genuinely laugh. Even with everything that was going on, Mrs Hudson looking at him like he was a savior still made him crack a laugh.

\- So, she continued, how have you been?

\- Well, actually…

\- Oh! How is Rosie? Can I see her soon?

\- I… I might have a problem with the whole family situation.

_That was a euphemism._

\- Oh dear Lord, what happened?

_Oh nothing, my wife just disappeared leaving me with a two days old newborn. And yes, she is probably linked to someone (or something?) that wants me and everyone I care about dead. Just pitch perfect._

\- Mary is gone. Let me explain, he said when he saw her face paling little by little (it would have been funny, in any other situation). This morning I got a call saying she just vanished. The nurse came ad she wasn't in her room. Plus... he hesitated, I don't know if Sherlock mentioned it but he believes, sorry _we_ believe she might be linked to Moriarty somehow… So, yeah. Things are not that great.

\- John that doesn't make sense! She was so kind! I don't get it! What… Why would she do that? she seemed furious.

\- I don't know yet, but I was just going to update Sherlock about the… recent development.

He took a sip of tea then, and picked up a chocolate and blueberry muffin. He turned it around a bit before taking a bite and actually closing his eyes in delight. _That is the greatest thing I have had in at least a week._ His phone chose this moment in particular to notify he had a message. He excused himself and took it. “This is doctor Milburgh. Just a message to tell you that, given the circumstances, we are allowed to keep Rosie until tomorrow morning.” He locked it and closed his eyes, huffing a long sigh. He took a glance at his friend and, seeing that she was still waiting for him to continue, curiosity shining in her eyes, he took a deep breath and resumed his tale. _It feels like I am telling someone else's story._

\- I am supposed to pick up Rosie tomorrow from the hospital. It's already a miracle that they can keep it until then.

\- You can always leave her to me, John, I hope you know that.  
\- He knows, but that is really not a clever idea.

Both John and the landlady jumped as Sherlock's deep voice elevated in the little flat. They turned around at the same time, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. The detective was casually leaning on the yellow flower-designed wallpaper. John raised a curious eyebrow at him to which Sherlock answered with a snicker.

\- I heard everything, as usual. We need to go John; she might be anywhereand we _have_ to find her before she leaves the city. Or worse, the country.

He bent down and took a muffin before making a move to go out of the flat. It was then that John remembered a detail he had not communicated to his friend, blinded by his (misdirected?) fury.

\- Sherlock? I sent a text to the number I found in the snow globe, but they never answered. Do you think I made a mistake?

\- It doesn't matter anymore anyway, he replied, clearly annoyed to be upheld.

\- A number you said, dears? interrupted Mrs Hudson.

\- Yes, a number. Now if you excuse us, Sherlock said prolonging the last syllable.

\- Frank used to have a safe where he kept everything regarding the, you know… she said glancing around her as if to verify nobody was eavesdropping, the drugs. Of course, the cops figured it out after a while.

\- A safe… Sherlock repeated. Then, as if struck by lighting: A safe! He shouted as he stormed out of the flat.  
\- You're a genius, Mrs Hudson, John said as he finished his tea. And a saint, he said raising up one last muffin.

He then quickly walked out of the room as a “John, hurry for once!” was shouted from the door. Sherlock was there and put on his coat before opening the door to the big outside world. They waited on the concrete for a minute before Sherlock ran to a cab to the other side of the sidewalk, earning himself several horns from the angry drivers. John apologized with a hand up to them before stepping into the cab with his friend, shutting the door just as the taxi-driver pushed the accelerator pedal; Sherlock had probably told him to ignore all limitation signs anyway. He was already on his mobile, probably asking Mycroft to give them a clear way, just like every time Sherlock was in an urgency. John looked out at the passing buildings around them. They were really rushing to Euston Road apparently, as five minutes later they were in before his front door. He did not really register as Sherlock payed the cab and dragged him out by his right arm. He did register the cold that bit at his skin. _It should not bee that cold in March, but whatever._ As John was about to open the door, Sherlock put a hand on his left arm and warned him:

\- Be careful, she could be here.

John swallowed the lump in his throat before straightening his back and turning the key in the lock. The door creaked open and the two friends were welcomed by darkness.

  


“She was here”, John heard the words from the bathroom and almost bolted to his friend. And there, before his eyes, was standing the proof of Mary's presence in the house earlier today: water drops were slowly dripping from the shower head, steam fading but still tangible on the mirror, a damp towel hanging from the rail. There was also the distinct smell of coconut shampoo still lingering in the air. John inhaled and shut his eyes. When he reopened them, Sherlock was looking at him with concern-filled eyes. The doctor shrugged before going forward, going past his friend and the questions the detective probably had and went back to the living room. _He can figure everything out on his own anyway. It's not like he needs me._ He sat on the red false velvet sofa and wiped his eyes. He was _so_ tired. Sherlock and him had been here since about sixteen and had spent half an hour minutes inspecting every split of the house. They had not found anything incriminating yet, but John could not hope it meant Mary was clean anymore. He was done lying to himself. The doctor looked around the room, his eyes roaming every detail they could have put to good use before settling on the pieces of glass still on the carpet. He broke his focus and lifted from the couch. He walked to the corner of the rug, which was still damp, and picked up the shards that once were the pretty Eiffel Tower and were now shattered for ever. It was a comic metaphor for John's domestic life: once beautiful, now broken beyond repair. He let out a sad laugh before stepping in the wet surface of the mat, his sock darkening as the water penetrated into the cotton. He let out a curse before crouching down to reach for what was left of the snow globe under the bookcase. He extended his arm under the cupboard and grabbed the object with great difficulty, as it had rolled under until it thumped the peach wall. He slided out when he had it and let out an exhale as he got back on his feet. _Even the slightest effort feels like climbing the mount Everest these days._

\- So, Mrs Hudson mentioned a safe... Sherlock's voice resonated in the otherwise quiet room.  
\- Yes, and we looked around Sherlock. There was nothing. There _is_ nothing. We are stuck here because she is smartest than us, admit it.  
\- No... the detective thought. There must be something we didn't see, somewhere we didn't look. But I am sure it's in this house, John. I need to get in my mental palace, he concluded before sitting cross-legged on the parquet, making the old wooden boards, the only things the couple had not renovated, creak.

John exhaled and started whistling “We Can Work It Out” by The Beatles as he went in the kitchen to seek for a snack and a glass of water: there was nothing he could do and it was pointless to stay there and twiddle his thumb when Sherlock was buried deep in his mind of genius. Maybe it was the way he had been stressed the whole day (week), but somehow the water tasted as if it was made in heaven; and the way too-old chips like they were the best meal someone could ever have in their life. He heard a “Of course!” coming from the living room and he hasted there. Sherlock was now looking into the bookcases and gesticulating widely at John, who raised both eyebrows in confusion. He was about to question his friend and to ask for explanations, but the detective hushed him as if he was a child who could never stay quiet. John frown and had to physically bite his lower lip to keep himself from speaking up. Once again, he probably would have snapped at Sherlock if he was not so worn out by life in general. Some minutes were spent in absolute silence until a distinct clink echoed. John gasped as the bookcase slowly turned around a revealed a cold black safe that looked like it came from a James Bond movie. It was relatively small, and the lock that held it closed was shining, almost teasing them. Sweat pooled at John's forehead as his hands began to slowly become clammy. Sherlock looked at him and a smile appeared on his lips. A nervous smile, of course, because it was all too serious for jokes or satisfaction for solving a case.

\- We can open it now or wait if you'd rather… Sherlock asked, sensibility so out of character.

\- No, I've waited enough for a lifetime. Beside, she could come back any time and, if she is part of this, and I'm really starting to think she is, she won't let us compromise her situation by blowing her cover.

\- Well, I'm certainly beginning to rub off on you, that's for sure.

\- You wish! John half-joked.

He was particularly touched by Sherlock's attempt at lighting the atmosphere, and was even more grateful when it turned out it worked. A little, but it worked. However, they were soon snapped back to reality as Sherlock brought his left hand to the lock and began entering the combination he (of course) knew by heart, somehow. They waited, holding their breath, until finally, to John's relief and anguish, the lock clicked open. Both friends stayed still for at least thirty seconds before Sherlock moved to open the safe, but John stopped him and took his place. _This is my job._ He slided the lock out of its loop and slowly opened the safe with trembling hands. There was no turning back now, no fixing this. What he was about to see could probably never be repaired. He took a deep breath and glanced at the safe. Shining silver mirrored in his eyes. A laptop. John's blood ran cold and turned to ice as he was faced with the truth: truth about Mary, Moriarty, John's wedding. They were about to discover the truth of a false life John had been convinced was real for so long. Sherlock made a move to take the computer, and John let him. He was frozen in place anyway, unable to move a muscle. The detective carefully stepped out of the recess holding the laptop to his chest after having checked it for explosives. As John lost sight of his friend, he sighed and released a whimper before walking back to the living room, where Sherlock was patiently waiting for him, the damned laptop now resting on his knees. John took a trembling breath before sitting next to him and moving his hand in what he hoped was a “go on” motion. Sherlock seemed to pick up on it, anyway, as he began working on the pass code. It took him two minutes to figure it out, of course. And the sequence of letters and numbers which held no meaning would probably be inked in John's spirit forever. 927T828HHB. It was weird, so impersonal, so unfamiliar for John, so different from the Mary he loved and knew who always would invoke sentiment for whatever she did. But then again, he certainly only knew the shell of a woman, the appearances, the mask she wanted him to believe was genuine. He had been fooled, from the beginning. It hurt so much, scarred at his heart and mind, hit at his trust. He realized then that he was not ready to face reality. Unfortunately, whether he was ready or not was no longer a concern, as the desk of the device appeared before both of their dumbfounded eyes. There were only two files on it: AGRA and MLONUK. They already knew what “AGRA” meant: Mary's teammates names, like a family of assassins recruited by some organization beyond the government.

\- “M” like Moriarty, “LON” as in London, Sherlock guessed, and…  
\- “UK”. United Kingdom, John murmured.

\- Exactly… We must open it John.  
\- I know, he tried to sound convinced, but it obviously did not work as Sherlock glanced at him for several seconds, his eyes almost shut, analyzing him.  
_What did I think fooling him?_ John nervously laughed before turning his attention to the folder. Sherlock double-clicked on it and they waited for the content to load. It felt like hours of waiting, like an eternity with the little circle turning and turning on the screen, like a mantra, indicating that the laptop was working. Like it did not understand, like it refused the informations he was given. _Great, now I am identifying myself in a computer._ Until suddenly a Microsoft Word paged filled with numbers appeared. And there it was. Page five out of seven: a letter or a mail or _whatever_ , honestly.

  


_Dear Rosamund, if I were to disappear in my fight against Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, I want you to take my place. I want you to find a way to get close to the detective and the doctor. You are a brilliant shooter and the organization needs people like you, who never backs out from anything, who will do anything to fulfill the goal of M. If I were to die, you will be the new Moriarty. Change name, identity, life, appearance. Do what you have to do but remember: the Baker Street inhabitants have to be eliminated. As much as I took pleasure in this mission, it is not the obsession of a young mad man; the orders come from above, from Serbia if you see what I mean. My men will work for you, they will respect you and serve you as they served me. Sincerely,_

_James._

  


It felt like the world had stopped turning, like time was frozen. The letter was one of many, and above it was one from a so called Tony to Jim, and above that one from Franz to Bill. It was a record. A record of all the archives of the organization in Great Britain. It was terrifying, mind blowing, heart-wrenching. Sherlock had been right: it was sway bigger than any of them had imagined. John's head started spinning faster and faster and the next thing he knew he was laying on the couch, a cushion under his arms which held his hand. He vaguely heard the faint voice of Sherlock on the phone: “I am asking you to watch out for Mary's move. Find her and track her. I need to know where she is at every moment of the day”. Then, a pause as who John guessed was Mycroft answered on the other line. And at last Sherlock hung up with a “I'll send you everything”. John heard footsteps and then Sherlock was back in the room, talking to someone. John frowned as he realized he was the one addressed and tried (and half failed) to listen to his friend.

\- … I'll be back tomorrow to explain you the plan. Try to get some sleep.  
And then the door slammed shut and John was alone again, in the deep maze that was his mind at the moment, everything mixing until nothing made sense. He did not cry, he just felt numb, empty, like he had been drained of every feeling, of every emotion. He was not angry, nor distraught, nor particularly surprised. He was nothing at all. Only one word made it through the thick fog of his thoughts: lie. Everything he had been told was a lie, his life was a lie. Eventually, John got up from the sofa to the kitchen. He opened a cupboard and took a bottle of whiskey. He would cry tomorrow, he would start thinking about the future tomorrow. Tonight, he would drink. Quickly, one bottle turned to two then to three, and the last thing John saw before blacking out was the bright light coming from the laptop still on the coffee table, staring at him and judging, probably. Because for the first time in years, John Watson let go of all reason. Nothing mattered anymore anyway, except for the numbness to stop, for life to stop, just for a little while.

  


_\-- A day after –_

  


The morning after was a mess. John immensely regretted having drank himself to unconsciousness as:

1) he was completely hungover

2) his breath felt like someone had made him drink gasoline, stale and nauseous

3) he had to get Rosie from the hospital within exactly two hours and twenty-three minutes.  
So yeah, he probably should have thought it through before downing three bottles of whiskey. When he had woken up, it was to a pounding headache that felt like a hammer was hitting his skull again and again. He had groaned before processing where he was, and what he and Sherlock had discovered yesterday. Sadness flooded through him, his core being shaken by a pathetic cry as his heart felt like someone was crushing it in his fist; it hurt to breathe. It felt like he was drowning, desperately crawling and swimming in the dark and infinite sea, never reaching the shore. He sighed and went to the kitchen, grabbing a coffee he downed in exactly thirty seconds and cooking some scrambled eggs. They were good, but not as tasty as Mary did them. _Don't think about her, she is not worth it anyway._ He had awoken early, around eight, muscles sore after spending the night on a couch, and had already received two messages: one from that doctor telling him to come by around twelve to pick his daughter up, and one of Sherlock asking him to “call him as soon as he could”. He thought back to the whole day before, how Sherlock had showed concern and sensibility, granting him all the time he needed when he himself was obviously excited and curious and wanted to rush the case, find the solution and everything that lead to it, building links from one clue to the other. It was in his nature, it was who he was. But yesterday he had been kind, patient with an obviously distraught John. They were clearly mending their relationship which has never stopped degrading from the detective's return until now. Somehow, whatever happened did not matter, whatever might happen would not change them: it would always be John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, the doctor and the detective, the Baker Street boys. John smiled to himself, despite everything, and headed to the bathroom. He had a shower, the streaming hot water helping the knots in his muscles loosen, and then took one (okay, two) aspirin. He then grabbed his phone he had left on his night table to recharge, and clicked on the “call” option of Sherlock's contact. A picture of the detective drunk at his bachelor party staring back at him, making him snort. The detective picked up on the second ring, of course:

\- John! I hoped you would call soon!

\- Yeah, well, some of us actually sleep at night, he half-lied.  
\- Or get really drunk before a case, which is very…

\- Can we, like, not talk about that? he said while rubbing his temples with his indexes.

\- … I have a plan, Sherlock replied after a while. _Thank you._

\- Hum? John told him in a what he hoped as a “go on” tone.  
\- Well. I already asked Mycroft to find her, as you may know. And, although that useless brother of mine did not actually found trace of Mary, I have reasons to believe she will come back at Euston Road within the day.

\- Wait wait wait. What reasons?

\- Intuition. Now, you will hide somewhere safe and wait. Do not try anything, am I clear? You'll tell her you got out so she feels safe, he continued without actually waiting for an answer, but instead Lestrade and his agents will surround the building after you sent me a message to signify her presence in the house. I'll come to Euston Road as soon as I called Scotland Yard, and we'll arrest her. Smooth and clean! he concluded, seemingly very proud of his idea.

John could not help but be fond at his friend's genuine excitation after having made up a plan. He was like a child, sometimes, wanting to be rewarded for his wittiness. However, he could not help but feel anxious about the plan. Of course, Mary had to be stopped, but what if something went wrong? What if somebody died? He was not in love with Mary anyway, at least not with who she really was, but he still cared about her. He could not help but to. But even if he did not, what if something happened to Sherlock, to Lestrade, to Rosie, to Mrs Hudson, to anyone they cared about? He would probably always blame himself and die of consuming guiltiness. He was cut short in his thoughts as Sherlock spoke again:

\- John? Do you have questions?

\- I… No, I think I got it. Seems like a good enough plan.

\- Okay. Well, then you know what to do.  
He nodded and hoped Sherlock somehow understood his answer, somehow. He was tired already, and he was frightened, if he were to be honest. He was about to hang up as Sherlock said one last thing that warmed his heart and in a way made him believe he could be alright, even after this.

\- I am sorry it ha to come to this, John, you know I would have rather any other way…

\- I know, but there is no other way. We have to do this, we have to stop it. If we do, maybe e can stop Moriarty. Because there is one thing she hasn't realized, one thing she hasn't planned and that we can twist in our advantage.  
\- What do you mean, if I may ask? Sherlock asked with a proud-filled voice, like a master who sees the results of his instruction on his apprentice.  
\- A letter. She has not wrote a letter yet, which means that if we're smart and fast enough, then…  
\- Then we can stop this once for all! he picked up. The organization will be chaotic for a while, a fault in the system, without a leader, and that is when we will bring it down. It will give us an opportunity, a chance... She has no successor yet! Oh! That's brilliant John, very good!

And then the line went down, Sherlock having probably hung up to go back to concocting new plans. John took a glance at the digital clock on the wall, and gulped when he saw it was already eleven and thirty-eight. He had to get Rosie, and then he had to get rid of her again. He felt guilty abut being such a bad father, but she would be safer far away from him now.

As he walked to the hospital, he thought about entrusting Rosie to Mrs Hudson, but then decided against it. Baker Street would not be safer than his house, and if the plan failed (which he hoped not, really), then she would probably go there, guessing this is where he would leave the baby. Perhaps he could ask Molly? Yeah, that seemed like a reasonable enough decision. He took out his phone and wrote out a “Hi! Could you take care of Rosie for a couple of days?”. He felt bad, only talking to her when he needed her help, but he did not have time to dwell on it as she immediately answered with an “Of course! Something is up?”. He sighed and locked his phone; deciding he would (maybe) explain everything later. He owned her that.

  


\- I'll come back when things have settled down a little, John said as he was standing on Molly's threshold.

He had picked Rosie up one hour and a half earlier, and the baby was now sleeping, gently cradled in Molly's arms. It had not been easy at the hospital, everyone looking at him with pity-filled eyes, glaring like he was an alien. He had felt like an animal in a cage, the doctors oppressing him with their questions about his wife and their “It will be fine”. Like they knew the whole reasons for Mary's disappearance. They knew nothing, yet they still acted like it would all go back to normal, like mothers breaking out of a maternity hospital leaving behind their newborns happened every Sunday. But now Rosie seemed at peace, magically unaware of the beautiful disaster that surrounded her and everything that would be her life.

\- It's only natural John, Molly answered with a compassionate smile, patting his arm with her free hand.

He had told her the broad outlines of the matter over a cup of tea and some cookies. She had cried, had apologized to John, and he had not had the strength to tell her all this fussing over him did not really help, quite the opposite if he were to be honest. He offered her a tight smile, swallowing the lump in his throat, and walked away. _What if I never come back? What if Rosie never sees me again?_ Sometimes, he hated his inner voice, always bringing him down with “what if”s scenarios. He did not have the time to think about all the outcomes of the day. He had a plan to continue. His friends were counting on him.

  


“I am going to Baker Street to visit Mrs Hudson and Sherlock. Hope you're okay”. He hesitated, his fingers hovering over the “send” button. Should he make it more detailed? Less? Could Mary see he was lying? What if everything went downhill because he could not send a bloody text? He was about to ask for Sherlock's advice and knowledge in tricks, but ultimately decided against it. He could not always rely on others, he had to start believing in himself. And maybe, if he wrote the message, it would somehow look more authentic anyway. He took a deep inhale, kept the air in his lungs, and stopped breathing as he hit “send”, praying it did not sound too fake. _The game is on._

“Done.” he wrote to Sherlock, and in the following minute he assisted to the change of his phone location as an answer. Sherlock was controlling it from Baker Street, tricking the device into believing he was at the flat instead of here, outsmarting Mary's probable tracking device that she had put on on his phone someday, when he was naive and ingenious. John wanted to stop a minute, think for a second about what the plan really meant for her, but he had no time. If Sherlock was seeing right into it, then Mary would be here within minutes. He had to hide somewhere safe, somewhere she would never think about checking. And he had to be fast about finding a place. _I should have thought about it sooner…_ He cursed under his breath as the digital clock counted down the seconds, like an hourglass. Like an accusation. Like a little lullaby that always stays in your mind, obsessing you with its unbearable melody. “Hurry up, or you will ruin everything”, it was singing to him again and again, like a loop, turning him crazy. Three minutes had passed, Mary had not answered yet, but John froze when he heard the distinct sound of keys being shaken out of a pocket. Seconds passed before he bolted up the stairs and got into the first room to his left, leaving the door ajar behind him. Rosie's bedroom. His steps were unheard as the floor was covered in a pastel pink afghan that Mary had chosen, claiming it was “appropriate for a little girl” when John had complained they would grow tired of it. He quickly adverted the room, and was relieved to find a closet. He opened the door, wishing for it to be new enough to be noiseless, and apparently there was still a God somewhere as his prayers were answered. He stepped in and shut the sliding door, being immediately plunged into darkness. He tried to keep his breathing quite, willing his heart to stop racing, and palmed his jumper pocket for his phone. He put it on mute before unlocking it, lowering the brightness right away. "She is here. I'm hiding in Rosie's wardrobe". His friend answered in the ten seconds following his text. "Oh, so you're in the closet now. SH". And, okay, cool, Sherlock still found the will to crack jokes at him. "Shut up and do your part" John wrote. He was being petty, but it was part of their game, of their dynamic. _We're still playing, despite this hell._ John would have laughed if he did not have to be absolutely silent to, you know, stay alive. Usual business. "Don't worry, I already called Lestrade; Scotland Yard is sending him with twenty men. SH". John kept himself from answering but felt immense relief wash through him: the law was on their side. Mycroft was already an assurance of safety (kind of), but Scotland Yard meant legal, recognized, clean. There would not any problems regarding Mary's arrest if they had the police on their side. _It's gonna be find._

Of course, fate had other plans for Sherlock and him. It all went really quickly. He widened his eyes and felt sick in his core as he heard a yell from below him, and then hurried and heavy steps, like an elephant was in his house, resonated as Mary rushed on the stairs. John felt sweat polling at his forehead and his hair got damp as the footsteps got closer and closer, then stopped in front of his door, like his wife was thinking about entering the room. Luckily, she resumed walking until John could not hear her anymore. But he did heard the distinct noise of their fire exit door opening. _The roof, she is going to the roof. She realized we're playing her. Oh God!_ He had no time for thinking or whimpering or calling anyone. She could not escape them, or they were all dead. He was about to follow her when his feet tripped over something. A gun was stored in the closet's, a small revolver that could fit in his pocket if he wanted. He felt hot tears pearling at the corner of his eyes, but he angrily wiped it away, sniffing and reaching for the gun. He then rushed to the roof and tried not to think about how many other guns she was hiding in their home, and about how he would have raised his daughter in this house that probably stored a whole arsenal. As he approached the door that lead outside, his life played before him, and he prayed for his daughter not to be an orphan by the end of the day.

  


The light that welcomed him as he opened the door almost blinded him, his eyes having just adapted to the darkness of the cabinet. The wind was whipping his face, the cold biting at him in this twelve March's afternoon. And there, at the edge of the roof, looking into the void expanding below them. She had her back at him, her signature flashy red coat flying behind her.

\- Hello, John, her voice raised itself in the London's cacophony of cars and horns.

\- Mary, or should I say Moriarty? he answered, venom slipping out of his voice.

\- Now now, she laughed. I think we should discuss it honey.

\- What? What is there to discuss? You betrayed me, played with my feelings when I was the weakest and...

\- You mean when you mourned for two years after your best friend jumped off Saint Bart's? she replied, now facing him and imitating a pitiful pout.

\- Did you ever love me? he uttered.

\- Always the selfish one, John. Does it really matter?

\- Answer. My. Question.

\- No. I did not love you, even if you are quite lovable, I have to admit. But, as you probably know, the job matters the most. I can't get involved with feelings.  
\- I can't believe it. I can't believe you!

\- It was all a game for her John, a new voice answered him.

They were both startled by the noise, and Mary laughed whole heartedly.

\- Sherlock! We were just waiting for you to start the show!

\- It's over Mary, the detective answered, his voice threatening, like a storm waiting to burst.

\- You think you can stop me Sherlock? You think you can stop this? Have you not realized yet that this is way bigger than everything you could have ever imagined? she snapped back, extending her hand in a showing motion at the city that expended below them.

\- I think you miscalculated everything. You're bluffing, you're trapped, he replied matter-of-fatly. Just answer one last question: you were a sniper that day, weren't you?

\- What? Which day? John confusedly asked.

\- The day I jumped.

\- What? I don't understand, John said, dread filling his bones.

\- Long story short: there were three snipers on the day I staged my death. One was on Mrs Hudson, one on Lestrade, and one on...

\- One on you, dear! Mary interrupted the detective. Sherlock could never admit it, but he cares deeply about you, some might even say he loves you. And when Jim threatened to harm one out of the three of you, or all of you, he just didn't have the guts to see you die. So he jumped. Of course, he should have died that day, she retorted..

\- You sacrificed yourself for us?

\- It was part of a plan, John. A possibility, if you want. Me and Mycroft had planned every single way this could go, so I wasn't in danger when I...

\- I don't care! Why didn't you tell me? It would have changed everything! John interrupted him.

\- It doesn't matter anymore.  
John was about to argue, but Sherlock did not leave him the time to as he resumed talking, now addressing to Mary.

\- Which one were you asked to shoot, Mary?

Mary did not answer as she gave a wary look at the two friends. They stayed still for several minutes, just a fight of glances. John squinted at the blinding sun and frowned when Mary started smiling, like she had an ace in the hole, like she was the one fooling them from the beginning. It was frightening, strange, seeing her like that, with a malicious smile and eyes filled with something dark, like the devil itself was lodged into them. She flashed an evil smile, and John's eyes widened as he caught a glance of silver in her pocket. _A gun. No, no, no, no. It's all going perfectly, please._ They jumped as the silence was broken by the sound of someone breaking open a door and shouting their names from the ground floor.

_-_ Sherlock? John?

\- Oh look who is here just in time for the dramatic turn of event? she giggled, clicking her tongue in an annoying habit.

Nobody answered as Lestrade kept looking for them. It felt like they were in another universe, like in a bubble they had built from rage and anguish and outsmarting one another.

\- The curtain rises, Sherlock, Mary whispered over the wind, like it was bending to her voice.

  


It all went really fast from there, and John only remembered parts of it, like snapshots, instants mixing in a blur.

  


  


The wind was howling. The gun. Mary about to shoot Sherlock. John palming the revolver in his pocket. Pulling the trigger. Mary. Black spots dancing before his eyes. The world spinning. Mary falling to the ground. Screaming. Blood. Blood everywhere. Death. Mary. Mary. Mary is dead. _I killed her._ Blood pooling out, everywhere. Sherlock unharmed. Scotland Yard. A shock blanket draped over them. Mary. Moriarty. Dead.

  


_So this is what the end of the world feels like._

  


_\-- 2 weeks later --_

 

It was raining, like in some bad cliché Hollywood movie. Yet it was real, it was John's life, and not some character's on a screen. The graveyard was almost empty from visitors and the few people that had come to Mary's funeral were behind him, as the tradition wanted it. The familiars, the friends, and lastly a dozen of professional mourners, as Mary's religion imposed it. Because yes, apparently, even she believed in something, after everything that went on. Mary did not have many kinsmen, as they were all in her native country, back in Romania. So it was mostly John carrying a crying Rosie in his arms, Molly, Sherlock, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and some of her friends he have never even seen in the two and a half years they had spent together. Which was comical, if you thought about it. How he did not know anything at all about her life, not even about her friends. They had spent all their days glued to one another for two years, yet John knew nothing. Everything he had been told were lies. He shut his eyes, pushing the tears that were about to spill out back in. It was weird, mourning for a woman that did not even exist, for somebody he had never really met. _Who am I crying for? Mary or Rosamund?_ The ceremony was a masquerade: everyone here knew they were burying a murderer, a sniper. Everyone knew they were putting _Moriarty_ six feet under. Yet they all had come, and John would be forever grateful for that. Whether it was a facade or not did not even matter, John needed the commemoration to say goodbye. As they approached the grave, Rosie started whimpering louder, like she somehow knew, like she could sense that it was her mother's tomb. As they all gathered around the pit, John saw the outline of a man near a tree. The umbrella betrayed the man's identity: Mycroft. The man nodded in acknowledgement at John, who return the greeting. As he focused back on the funeral, he saw the priest coming near them, and he snapped out of the religious words as the man began praying God to accept Mary in His breast. He was never a pious in the first place, and he found it extremely hypocritical to listen to someone's blessing for a woman he had killed, that would probably never go to Heaven anyway, if something like Heaven actually existed. Sherlock and Mycroft had convinced Lestrade to cover the murder, making it look like a suicide. There had been an official statement pulling John and Sherlock out of justice's grasp and declaring Mary as a "traitor to the Crown, compromising the safety of the citizens of the British ground". They would not be sued, which were of course brilliant news, but it did not help with John's guilt. He believe it would eat at him forever, even if he had not had a choice. It was her or Sherlock. His wife or his best friend. Maybe it meant he was a horrible person that could not be trusted with his love, but he would always chose Sherlock over one of his girlfriends. It was mechanical. When he focused back on the priest, he had apparently finished his invocation of God or whatever force was suppose to save Mary from an endless wandering. They were all dropping off flowers at the feet of the grave, chrysanthemums and gladioli and white lilies. Minutes were spent in absolute silence, before all eyes were on John, like they were waiting for him to do something, to _say_ something. He stepped forward, placing a single orchid in the center of the already existing bunch of flowers, and sighed heavily. At least it was over, no more Moriarty, no more Mary, no more danger. At least not for a while. Of course they would probably have to bring down the rest of the men, but there would not be a leader, nobody would know about Mary's passing. In the end, they had won.

  


After the reception, everyone left very quickly, of course. Nobody really wanted to be here anyway, they were all doing it for John's sake. He was grateful. Sherlock and him were the only ones left: the detective leaning on an old tomb, John holding a peacefully sleeping Rosie in his arms and looking at the flawless baby. His daughter, who would grow up without a mother. Yet she was perfect, so beautiful. John thought back to everything that could have happened to her, and felt immense relief flow through him. He was grateful. Both friends were interrupted when somebody approached them, holding a file in their hands. Mycroft, of course. His brother was already next to him when John joined them. Sherlock glanced at him, concern written on his face, a frown slowly making its way between his eyebrows. Sherlock cared, and John was happy someone still did. He was grateful.

\- John. Sherlock, Mycroft greeted them. My condolences, doctor.

\- Thanks Mycroft, Sherlock answered when John just gaped at the man. But I reckon you are not here for sorries.

\- You would be right not thinking that, brother of mine. Here is a list of agents that work, or shall I say worked, for our late Moriarty, he said while handing them the papers. They have to be eliminated. At all costs.

\- You act like I don't know that, _dear_ brother, he answered full of sarcasm.

\- I don't think you understand the extent of this, Sherlock.

\- I don't understand? I believe you don't understand how serious I am about the whole story. This has affected me, this has affected us, he started, his voice getting louder as he pointed at John.

\- Sherlock. If they find out they don't have a leader anymore, they will chose somebody else. Now is the only time that matters.

Sherlock laughed and was about to reply before John cleared his throat, interrupting the two brothers.

\- Okay. Can we not, like, fight right now? John annoyingly said. We will get rid of them, Mycroft. Sherlock and I know the stakes in game, okay?  
Sherlock looked surprised at John's outburst, and Mycroft at both of them, then sighed. They stopped fighting like stupid teenagers. They were listening to him, he was important. John grinned. He was grateful.

\- I can't even argue with the two of you, he tightly said, his lips pressing together.

Sherlock smiled and, as Mycroft was about to move away, going back to whatever business he was having, when Sherlock grabbed his arm and stopped him:

\- Have you transferred everything?

\- Yes Sherlock, I did.  
\- Every belongings? he insisted.

\- Yes, Mycroft articulated, sighing at his brother.

\- Good. See you around, Mycroft.

\- 'Till next time, brother, he said, strolling away.

\- The game is on, Sherlock murmured so low John was not sure it actually happened.

Sherlock and John stayed silent in the cemetery, the sun slowly taking over the cloudy sky. It would be beautiful tomorrow. He was grateful. John smiled before turning to his friend, a question dancing in his thoughts.  
\- _What_ has been transferred _where_?

Sherlock smiled before walking away, not doubting a second his friend would follow him. At on point he turned around and spoke over his shoulder. Just a sentence. Just one thing.

\- 221B Baker Street, he winked and turned back.

John smiled until it hurt, Rosie still in his arms, then followed him.

He was grateful.


End file.
